Monday, February 13, 2017

For those of you who don’t have daughters, prom dress
shopping is NOTHING like you’re picturing. It’s not like when we were young.
It’s not like any of the Disney movies make it out to be.

It’s like taking all the teenaged emotions and attitudes,
mixing them with equal parts “Mom knows nothing” and “I can’t decide—Mom, what
do you think” and sprinkling a heavy dose of glitter, tacky rhinestones and
“Wait, where’s the rest of the dress?”.

First, we went to a boutique she’d heard about. It was
organized by an OCD person—type of dress, color and size. Based on what the
Princess thought she wanted, we were instructed to look at three—and only
three—aisles. The salesgirl took the dresses and placed them in the dressing
room, helped her get in and out of each one and was generally helpful.

I stood there, held her coat and was allowed to voice my
opinion.

She found a dress. I was amazed. I’d figured we were going
to have to hit at least four stores over several weekends. She tried on others
to make sure. She liked it. She wanted it.

But we weren’t done yet. First, she had to check with her
friends to get their opinions. This required some sneaky photo taking, since
pictures weren’t allowed.

They liked it.

Then she had to check Facebook. Because unlike when I was a
teenager, no one can have the same dress. And to ensure that this social faux
pas does not occur, each class creates a Facebook page. When you purchase your
dress, you post a photo. It’s yours and no one else is allowed to wear it.

Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but what do I know?

So she looked on Facebook and it wasn’t there.

She hemmed and hawed a little longer. And finally decided
she’d found the one.

We walked to the cashier and waited our turn. The cashier
smiled and began taking our information.

“Wait, Mom.”

Oh no. Turns out one of the girls in her friend group had
purchased the same dress in a different color.

Seriously?

So we left and went to a different store. That had a ton of
dresses. I was sure we’d find something.

And we did. We found about ten somethings. There was no helpful salesperson here, however, so I trailed her, carrying dresses like a pack mule.

She took them back in the fitting rooms and tried them on.
One by one, she discounted them, and I started getting worried. Turns out, she
purposely started with her least favorites.

Then we got to the ones she liked.

One was pale pink lace with sparkles. It was beautiful. She
loved it. Until she realized (thanks to her friends) that it made her washed
out. So she tried it on in baby blue. And it was really pretty.

Then she tried a black one with lace in the front. It was
gorgeous.

Then she tried a navy one with stuff on the side and back. I
honestly don’t know what the “stuff” was. At this point, I’m lucky I recognized
it was a dress. It was stunning.

And she couldn’t decide. She hemmed and hawed. Her friends
liked some better than others.

She tried the baby blue one on again.

And we left without anything.

I don’t want her to buy a dress she doesn’t love. But I also
don’t want to have to do this again. Except I am. Next weekend.

Monday, February 6, 2017

This wouldn’t be a big deal, except that I just convinced my
teen that the basement is an acceptable place to be with her friends or to
watch TV on occasion—after many, many, many years of her refusal to go anywhere
near it.

I hate spiders. I’ve pretended to be okay with them so I don’t
create some phobia in my kids, but I really, really, really hate them. So I’m
not killing it.

My other teen is morally opposed to killing creatures. I’d
be more okay with this if creatures didn’t include spiders. Her preferred
method of disposal is to deposit them outside. Well, that’s where the spider
started out, and he figured out a way to get inside once. Putting him back
outside is not a long-term solution. Plus, she’s noisy about it. Actually, she’s
noisy about everything and there’s no way I’ll be able to keep her quiet enough
to prevent her sister from finding out. And then she’ll never go in the
basement again.

Why don’t I have my husband kill it? Well, a few reasons.
The most relevant one right now is that he’s 5,000 miles away for the next two
weeks. If it’s still there when he gets back, I’ll ask him to take care of it.

I could be a total wimp and call my dad. Don’t laugh, I’ve
done this before, except it was a cicada on the inside of the window in my
living room. I tried calling my husband to take care of it, but he was at work
and refused to come home to kill a bug. Do you have any idea how big cicadas
are? HUGE. So I called my dad. And he was great. He came right over. But he
deposited it outside. Which means it could have managed to get back in my
house. It didn’t, but that’s beside the point. So even though my dad is retired
and has plenty of time to come over and get rid of bugs for me, I’m not calling
him. At least not yet.

For now, I’m leaving the spider where it is. It has eight
eyes and eight legs. I figure if it’s going to be in my house, I can put it to
work, looking out for bogeymen who might try to hide in my basement now that my
husband is away.

Because I’m even more afraid of THEM!

It's been there for two days now. There's a small chance it might be dead. I don't know and I'm not checking. But if it is dead, i'm still leaving it there as a warning to its friends and family: "Don't let this happen to you!"

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About Me

I'm a mom, wife, strategist, lover of snark, volunteer, shoe- and choco-holic. I write to escape the craziness of life. Sometimes I even write about that craziness! My blogs are usually a bit snarky; my books are contemporary romance. I also write freelance articles for magazines, newspapers, and edit newsletters.